


Twin Skeletons

by Bayyvon



Category: Eminem (Musician), Fall Out Boy
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Emtrick, M/M, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Overdose, Pill Abuse, Prescription Pill Abuse, Prescription Pill Addiction, Sex Tag For Safety, There Might Be A Happy Ending But Don't Hold Your Breath, Total Death Experience, crackship, pill addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7300504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bayyvon/pseuds/Bayyvon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And I just need enough of you to dull the pain</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Just to get me through the night 'til we're twins again</i>
  <br/>
  <i>'Till we're stripped down to our skeletons again</i>
  <br/>
  <i>'Till we're saints just swimming in our sins again</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One - Chapter One: August 2005

**New York**

**August 2005**

It's late. Marshall knows it is, but his phone died hours ago, and he was currently stranded in -fuck, where are they again? Proof had left him god knows how long ago, and he was starting to become restless. The rapper finds himself situated on a bar stool sipping on two fingers worth of Jack Daniels, when a commotion draws his attention. Sharp explosions of light from the cameras of paparazzi can be seen outside the entrance as two men duck in. The taller of the two is dressed in tight clothes that stick to his body like a second skin, jewelry glinting when the lights bounce just right; a dark ring of kohl sits heavy under already baggy eyes. Pretty, sure, but not quite his taste. The other is almost his polar opposite; bronze hair is being tamed beneath a ball cap, and he's in nothing more extravagant than jeans and a t-shirt that says something Marshall can't read at this distance. He looks cute, Em decides, bright smile, messy hair he wants to wind his fingers through. Lively eyes, and the older man watches as he adjusts and then readjusts his outfit, and occasionally checks his phone to appear busy. The more active of the two is one he thinks Manson would like, _(mentally makes a note to himself to get his name and a picture for his old friend)_ sporting dark makeup much like the shock-rocker's own that he would love to watch roll down his face in streaks. His lips are painted a pale pink, and he pouts them when the stout man he's with shakes his head 'no' at something. They branch off, and the one in the cap situates himself in the back of the room, and Marshall watches him go. The eyeliner sporting one approaches the bar, and the older man heads off, Jack in hand. He smiles at the boy as he approaches, plain red t-shirt hanging loose on his shoulders, glasses perched on his nose; he keeps his do-rag secured tightly, and his jeans where they belong. The boy glances up, silently appraising him with the most innocent blue-green eyes. This was going to be fun.

"Y'stirred up quite the commotion back there."

"Comes with the job." He chuckles softly, pale cheeks flaming. He rubs an embarrassed hand across the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly.

"I can relate." The older man laughs. "I'm Marahall." He extends his hand, notes his cuticles are rough around his nailbeds from where he had recently chewed on them. "Mathers." He tacks on as an afterthought when the boy takes his hand.

"Patrick." He shakes the older man's hand firmly, before he realizes he'd gotten a full name when he'd only indulged Marshall in his first. "Stump."

Em had heard of him, popular with the kids, some big thing from Chicago. He could see why the girls were crazy about him. "Yeah, yeah I've heard'f you." He smiles. "C'n I sit, d'you mind?"

"No, no. Sit." Patrick scooches over, catching his lower lip between his teeth as he gathers his thoughts, and even then his words come out in fragments. "I, ah. I'm actually, uh. A really big fan... of your beats, that is." A cherry color blooms along the high planes of his cheeks, eyes averting to where he had been absently playing with the fray of his belt.

"Yeah?" Marshall chuckles, sitting across the booth from the young singer. "I've heard your shit. Not bad."

The man Patrick had entered the club with plops down unceremoniously down next to his friend, two drinks in hand and a knowing smirk on his face.

"You're gonna need this." Is all he says before pushing himself back up off the bench and threading his way through the crowd.

"Sorry about him," Patrick shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping from the back of his throat.

"Nah, man. Don' sweat it." The rapper shakes his head, a soft smile on his face. "You, uh. You wanna go somewhere?"

"Woa-what? Y-yeah, sure." The younger man seems baffled by this, and Marshall has to laugh out loud at the poor kid.

"Don't worry, man, not like that. Just. I dunno, wanna bullshit in a place that ain't surrounded by fuckin' vultures, y'know?"

Patrick nods, understanding completely, and downs his drink.

Em excuses himself to the bathroom, tells Patrick he'll meet him by the fire escape on the second floor, and watches himself in the busted mirror as he pops two Vicodin and half a Valium. Needs to shoot these nerves in the damn foot, he wasn't a fuckin' kid anymore, didn't need to be so fuckin' jittery around strangers. This would help. Always did. Leveled his ass out. Wasn't gonna fuckin' clam up this time, goddammit.

The rapper takes a few pulls of water from the sink faucet, before he remembers he still has wiskey in his glass, downs it and heads out the door and up the steps to find Patrick waiting for him, all nerves and lip bitten grins.


	2. Act One - Chapter 2: October 2005

 

**October 2005**

**Detroit, Michigan**

 

Marshall is lounging on his couch, booze in one hand and pills in the other, radio only giving him the nearest mainstream station. That's when he hears it. 

 

_Am I more than you bargined for yet? I've been dyin' to tell you anything you wanna hear..._

 

Fuck, that's. Thats the kid, from the Anger Management Tour. The one from the bar. Patrick. Em suddenly realizes the kid's CD is still in his unpacked suitcase. The memory seems to smack Marshall in the face, even through his Vicodin haze.

 

  
_Patrick is laughing, full and unapologetic in the small room they had found themselves in. After scaling the fire escape and traversing the alleyways Marshall had found a hole in the wall, no questions asked motel. He asked the elderly man at the counter what he thought of hip-hop, to which he had responded that he hadn't listened to popular music in years_. _Stuck mostly to old records and his player. Smiled at the pair and handed Em a room key with a chain attached to a piece of laminate plastic with a number 4 on it._  


_"Yeah," Em laughs with the sandy haired singer, "It was pretty crazy. Just started screamin' and chasin' us down." He pitched his voice high, imitating a woman. "Eminem, it's Eminem! Oh my gawd!"_

_Patrick's snickers die into the occasional small giggle, and he meets Marshall's eyes. It's like he's got a question. Or something important to say, as if he'll burst if he doesn't, but he cant seem to form the words so he's trying to use his eyes._

_Marshall doesn't remember who did it, too many Valium's in to even try, but he remembers with alarming clarity the way Patrick had smelled, vaguely of sweat but mostly of cinnamon and clover when their lips had collided together, the accidental slip of teeth here and there as they fought to find a comfortable rhythm. The kid was new at this, and Marshall had no intentions of stopping his mentoring now._

_He peels his shirt off, and is pressing himself against the younger man, when Patrick softly asks if they can stop. Marshall nods. He's probably too high to do the kid any good anyway._

 

"Ay-yo, Em!"

 

Marshall is pulled out of his memory, to find Proof switching off the radio and looking at him quizically. "What the fuck're you listenin' to, man?"

 

The older man shrugs, and says: "It's my only station right now."

 

Proof laughs, and hauls Marshall up. "C'mon, Doodie. Got some shit f'you to check out."

 

Marshall nods, watching his dark skinned friend lead the way.

 

_Marshall walks down the hall of the hotel early the next morning, asks the man at the desk if he'd seen Patrick. He had laughed, and handed Marshall a CD with a note taped to the front._

**_'Marshall,_ **

__

_**Thank you.** _

__

_**\- Patrick'** _

__

_A phone number was scrawled across the inner face of the lyric booklet, and Marshall grinned his whole way back to the venue._

"Em!" Proof aggressively snaps his fingers in the older man's face. "Where the hell you at today, man?"

 

"Sorry, dude, 'm jus a lil hungover 's all."

 

To: Patrick

heard your song on the air today, man.

 

Marshall swings the car door shut, and waits for Proof to hop in beside him after he takes a brief call.

 

To: Patrick

how you been?

 

Patrick doesn't respond for hours, and Marshall is actually beginning to panic. Just a little. Enough that DJ notices, and asks what his deal is.

 

The rapper just shakes his head, and excuses himself.

 

Six.

 

This Is his sixth Vicodin and first Percocet of the day.

 

He'll be fine.

 

Watches Proof through the glass of the booth as he lays his verse of a track, as Em chugs hard from his water bottle.

 

That's when he gets a text.

 

From: Patrick

I've been alright. Never thought I'd hear from you. You available for a Skype session?

 

To: Patrick

Now?

 

"Looks like somebody lifted your sour ass mood, hm?" DJ laughs at him, shoves the side of his head lovingly, and turns his attention back on Proof.

 

From: Patrick

Whenever, I'm free the next few days.

 

To: Patrick

if nows good for you it's good for me

 

"Imm'na take off, y'all." Em says when Proof steps out of the booth, all grins and adrenaline.

***

 

Marshall plops heavily down on the couch, laptop situated in front of him, waiting for Patrick to answer. Kind of begins to chew his nails. Anxious. Wonders if he's being set up. Or worse, stood up. Jesus, so fuckin' paranoid. Get your shit together, Mathers. Not like they were an item and he needed to worry about this kind of thing. Just as he's about to get up and find his pill bottle, Skype begins to chirp at him, and Patrick's face appears, beaming. Marshall finds that Patrick is in a hotel room. It looks familiar. Then again, they all look the same to him.

 

"Hey!" Patrick chirps.

 

"Hey." Marshall nods, a small smile lifting the edge of his lips.

"You look tired," The kid looks genuinely concerned. It tugs on Marshall's heartstrings just a little. "You been sleeping okay?"

 

"Same 's always.." The rapper chuckles. "How's the... The band, thing?"

 

"The band thing's fine. Been busy as hell, yknow?"

 

"I hear that one..."

 

***

 

Marshall wakes up in a cold sweat, still sprawled out on the couch, Skype still running and Patrick making contented noises in his sleep. He'd insisted he stay up with Marshall. Insomnianc. He doesn't remember falling asleep, the last thing he does remember is thinking about--

 

No. Nope. Nah-uh. 

 

He's contemplating getting up and grabbing a bottle of water when Patrick sighs his name.

 

Freezes.

 

Waits.

 

Maybe he's awake, and heard that Marshall was up-

 

And that false hope flies out the window when the boy rolls over, and does it again. He settles into the mattress with his back to Marshall and doesn't stir again.

 

Sonofabitch.

 

He was fucked. So fucked.


	3. Act One - Chapter Three: December 2005

 

**Christmas Eve**

 

**Kalamazoo, Michigan**

 

**(Two and a half hours between Chicago and Detroit)**

 

_"So where'd you come from?" Marshall asks one night over the phone, suddenly curious._

_"Chicago," Patrick seems uninterested in divulging any more than he has to, and the older man understands. Having to rehash your shit all the time got tiring._

_"So we from the same neck'a the woods, huh?"_

_"Something like that," Patrick chuckles._

"Merry Christmas, P." Em says, draining the last of the champagne bottle, and tossing it into the bin beside the couch.

 

"Merry Christmas, Marshall." Patrick smiles, still so fucking sheepish.

 

Michigan was known for it's five foot average snowfall, and this year had been no different, the rapper muses, watching the powdery flakes pile outside the windowpane. The room is lit soft and cozily dim, giving him the feeling of warmth radiating out from his core.

 

Or maybe that was the Percocet. 

 

_"Hey, P," The blond leaves a voicemail for Patrick every morning, but this time his fingers had fumbled and for once he couldn't seem to gather his words. "You, uh.. you said you'd be back in the area by December, yeah? I was, ah, I was wonderin' if... Goddamn I feel like a **fuckin' idiot**. Aright. I was wonderin' if you wanted to spend some time wi'me. I got a place in Kzoo, real quiet. Just uh. Lemme know."_

 

His smile feels lazy, but comfortable as it spreads across his face. Patrick had long since settled into his side, and Marshall presses an affectionate kiss to the crown of the young singer's head. The usually rowdy clamor of Kalamazoo's nightlife had faded into a satisfying white noise outside the small condo Marshall had rented for holidays with the girls. The boy seems to melt into him the longer they lay there, tangled in a mess of sweaters, long-johns, and heavy jeans. Marshall can't help it, needs the skin-to-skin contact --Dre had called it "grounding" once, -- slowly creeps his hand up Patrick's shirt to get at the soft skin of his side. The kid lets out a pleased sigh, and nuzzles into Marshall's neck. The blond hadn't gone overboard with the self medicating tonight, though, just enough to ride a dull wave on top of his pre-established champagne buzz.

 

_"Marshall?"_

_"Yea?"_

_"I'd like that."_

_Marshall thinks his heart is going to burst through his ribs, holy fuck. He was gonna spend Christmas with Patrick._

_"The fuck you grinnin' about?" Dre raises a brow at his young prodigy. The kid didn't normally look so damn cheery, especially when he had a late night session._

_"Nothin', nothin' man. Let's run this!"_

 

"Hey, Patrick?"

 

"Hm?" Soft lashes flicker sleepily against the older man's neck.

 

"Lookit me." Marshall hooks a finger beneath Patrick's jaw, tilting his head up. "You don't gotta be s'damn shy wi'me, yknow." The rapper presses soft kisses to temple, cheek, lips, tugs him completely into his lap by the ass to get at his jaw, neck neck neck---  _jesus **fuck.**_ "Get this damn thing off, Stump, 's ugly as hell."

 

"I like this sw-" Complaint cut off by fabric, knuckle white death grip on Marshall's shoulders when he bites down hard --  _really fucking **hard**_ \-- where his collar meets his neck. "Fuck,"

_"Marshall?"_

_He gets the panicked call two hours after Patrick is supposed to have arrived. The kid is stuck in a snowbank. Marshall makes sure the house is warm before he leaves, cursing himself for thinking it was a good idea to plunge the singer highway first by himself into Michigan's hellish snow storms. Real smooth, Mathers. Super fuckin' smart, just kill'im before you get the--- holy shit. The rental car's hood is halfway in the ditch, ass end lifted off the ground. As if the snow bank had just reached out and swallowed half of the little blue car. Marshall curses, throwing his car in park and sliding his way towards the bank. "Jesus, Patrick!"_

 

Marshall grins against flushing skin, murmurs "No cold feet now, hm?"

 

"Not hardly," Patrick laughs softly, shifting his weight so that he was no longer leaning so heavily against the rapper.

 

"Good." Marshall punctuates his single syllable response with jarring fingers between the valleys of Patrick's hips. The older man earns breathy moans for his efforts, and he himself groans when Patrick ruts softly, and Marshall can do no more than bury his face between neck and collar where he's made a small cluster of dark hickeys against pale skin. This kid was gonna be fuckin' deatha him, Marshall could feel it.

 

_The snow is cold, turning his hands scalding red as he digs frantically to make a large enough hole for Patrick to crack the door or even the window he didn't care he just wanted him **out** **now.**  The tips of his fingers were beginning to burn, tinting blue the closer he got to the car's window. "Patrick?" He tries again, and again, shouting loud enough his whole body began to ache, wanted to throw his fist through the glass and just get the shit over with just needed to know he was okay--_

_"Marshall!" The sound is muffled, but it was as if the blond had just heard a fucking angel scream in his ear. Thank God or whoever the fuck was paying attention when Marshall had pleaded with anything that would listen just to keep the kid safe until he could get to him._

_"Hold on! I'll be right back!" The older man nearly ate shit trying to scramble back to his car, retrieving the tire iron he kept beneath his seat._

"Fuckin' Christ, kid, you gon kill me." Marshall nearly blacks out when Patrick begins to lightly tongue his fingers after making a soft jab that they were still cold.

 

The young man just chuckles softly, and sucks a little harder.

**Author's Note:**

> All right folks, just testing the waters here, it would mean tons to me if you lemme know what you thought. Let's get fuckin' wild.


End file.
